


Her Sweet Embrace

by straightforwardly



Category: The Borgias (Showtime TV)
Genre: Consent Issues, F/M, Nonnies Made Me Do It, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 01:29:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17091530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straightforwardly/pseuds/straightforwardly
Summary: During Cesare's visit to Lucrezia in Naples, she makes a small request of him.





	Her Sweet Embrace

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags! This was written for the prompt [Sex pollen, 1800s or earlier](https://fail-fandomanon.dreamwidth.org/344797.html?thread=2002190813#cmt2002190813).

“I tire of Naples,” says Lucrezia. She touches her fingers to Cesare’s arm, feather-light; though there are layers of cloth between them, he still fancies that he can feel her touch against his skin. “I know you have little time before you must leave again, but will you ride with me for a little while?”

Her wishes have become so constrained over the past year. _Stay at my side_ has become _come back when you can_ ; _don’t go_ became _just a little bit longer, if you are able_. She is a Borgia: her dreams should encompass the world entire, and the world itself should rush to lay those dreams at her feet. The knowledge of his own role in how her heart’s desires have been bridled lays heavy in his own chest.

Riding out with her will take hours which he does not have, but he cannot find it within himself to refuse her this smallest of requests.

“Of course, sister,” he says, and as he smiles down at her, he covers her hand with his own.

In no time at all, their horses are prepared for them. Once the city’s gates close behind them, Lucrezia seems to breathe easier. Cesare’s hands clench at his reins. 

She guides them in the direction of the forest, and Cesare follows her lead. Micheletto has mentioned that Lucrezia spends much time riding out here, between the trees; it must be a favorite place. 

Cesare has almost forgotten what it was like to speak easily with his sister, without the shadow of their frustrated desires hanging between them, but on that ride together they very nearly manage it. Conversation flows freely between them, and Lucrezia seems lighter, brighter. He’s been in Naples for two days, but this is the first time since arriving that he’s seen her eyes so lively and alert. 

They wander deeper into the forest. Their mounts pick their way through the undergrowth. Lucrezia mentions, lightly, rumors about a witch who supposedly lives in the woods, and he teases her for a fear he knows she does not feel. No mad herbswoman destined for hanging would ever be enough to make his sister quaver. 

The forest grows darker.

He is just about to suggest that they start heading back when Lucrezia leans forward in her saddle and exclaims, “Look!” 

She doesn’t wait for him to answer. She urges her steed forward, leaving him to follow after. 

By the time he catches up to her, she’s already sliding off from her horse. A clearing lies before her, filled with dazzling sunlight and blossoming flowers. Their number are beyond reckoning, though he has never seen their like: bright red touched with gold, their petals forming swollen, drooping curves. An intoxicating scent fills the air. 

“Lucrezia!”

She turns her head to him, and his throat dries up of anything he might have said. There is something fey about the way she stands there, her profile cast half in light, her small fists lifting her skirts up from her feet, a coy half-smile curling into her cheek.

She turns from him and goes into the light, and he can do nothing more than dismount and follow.

With each step he takes into the meadow, the air seems to become thicker; it takes him a moment to realize that it is pollen, clouds of yellow pollen, released from the flowers crushed beneath their feet. They prick against his throat with each breath; their scent fills his lungs. Fills him with warmth.

Lucrezia stops in the center of the meadow and turns back to him, red-cheeked, with parted lips. Her chest rises and falls with quick, stuttering breaths, and his eyes fix on the flush covering the swell of her creamy breasts. His entire body is prickling with heat, now. It’s becoming harder to think.

 _Poison?_ a distant part of him wonders, and the thrill of fear that produces clears his thoughts a little. Lucrezia—he cannot leave Lucrezia here; he has to save her— 

He means to take her by the arm, to pull her away from this place, but his hands find her waist instead, and then he’s kissing her, and the touch of her lips is both the deepest of pleasures and the cruelest of torments. It’s too much—and it’s not enough. It is as though the banked desire always simmering within his belly has erupted into a wildfire. He is achingly, desperately hard. He needs her lips, her skin, her touch—he needs to be inside of her, to have her surround him, for there to be nothing in the world but her wet heat and soft skin. He needs _her_.

Lucrezia whimpers, high and desperate, her fingers scrabbling at the laces of his clothing just as he tug at hers, their kisses growing sloppier and needier with each passing second. One of them manages to tug off his doublet—Lucrezia’s bodice finally loosens—just as one, or both, of them trip and send them both crashing to the ground, puffs of pollen clouds rising up in the air.

“Cesare— _Cesare_ —” Lucrezia moans as he pushes her chemise aside and buries his face in her breasts, his mouth latching on her soft, heat-soaked skin. The pollen is everywhere, and it tastes sweet against his tongue as he drags it over the swell of her breast and swirls it over the tip of her pebbled nipple. 

But as sweet as she tastes, it still isn’t enough. Too much cloth still separates them. He ruts mindlessly against the ground between his sister’s skirts, but it brings no relief. Then Lucrezia lowers her hand, and he groans, open-mouthed against her breast, as her hand brushes against him through the thin cloth of his breeches. 

Together, they manage the button holding his breeches closed, and then he shucks them off, his hardness springing free, though that in itself brings little relief. Lucrezia lifts her legs, pulling him into the crevice beneath her heavy skirts, and finally, _finally_ he is sliding into her. She clenches around him, tight and hot, and he almost sobs with the pleasure of it, and she’s sobbing too, chanting his name over and over. “Cesare, _oh Cesare_ , Cesare, Cesare—“

He sets a quick, hard pace, and Lucrezia responds with eagerness, lifting her hips to meet him with every thrust. He’s kissing her, wild and sloppy, anywhere he can reach, and she’s kissing him too, as best she can; their hands roam over each other’s body, his thumb reaching for the pearl between her legs.

Never before has he felt pleasure such as this, so potent that it aches. He can hear nothing but Lucrezia’s voice, taste nothing but the sweet salt of her skin, feel nothing but her body entwined with his. It feels like she is devouring him with her touch—like the closest to heaven that he could ever reach—and Cesare _burns_.

He loses track of how many times Lucrezia reaches her peak. When he finally reaches his own, it rockets through him like cannon-fire as he spends inside of her. His mind goes blank, ablaze with white-hot pleasure.

When he is himself again, he finds that he collapsed, half-lying on top of a half-naked Lucrezia. He is no more clothed than she—less so, even—and he feels slow, sore, and utterly sated. 

There is something comfortable about lying here like this. The pleasure is utterly unlike the frenzy that had overcome him, yet it is an indulgence no less for it. 

After a time, he raises his head to find Lucrezia looking back at him, satisfied and smug. 

“You knew about this place,” he realizes.

Her smile is knowing. “I may have heard a rumor somewhere.”

Cesare cannot help it: he laughs, rolling off of her. Perhaps he should be irked, that she has played him so, but the laughter comes more easily and natural; he is, perversely, comforted by this. Lucrezia has not changed so much after all—denied something she desires, she still seeks out a way to obtain it nonetheless. She has not been fully constrained. 

This cannot change matters between them, of course. She is still his sister—his clever, beautiful sister—and their paths still pull them in separate directions. This thing between them—it cannot be, no matter how much he might desire otherwise.

 _No more, no more_ —and yet, he cannot resist leaning in for one last kiss.


End file.
